Calendar An icon of a desk calendar. Cancel An icon of a circle with a diagonal line across. Caret An icon of a block arrow pointing to the right. Email An icon of a paper envelope. Facebook An icon of the Facebook "f" mark. Google An icon of the Google "G" mark. Linked In An icon of the Linked In "in" mark. Logout An icon representing logout. Profile An icon that resembles human head and shoulders. Telephone An icon of a traditional telephone receiver. Tick An icon of a tick mark. Is Public An icon of a human eye and eyelashes. Is Not Public An icon of a human eye and eyelashes with a diagonal line through it. Pause Icon A two-lined pause icon for stopping interactions. Quote Mark A opening quote mark. Quote Mark A closing quote mark. Arrow An icon of an arrow. Folder An icon of a paper folder. Breaking An icon of an exclamation mark on a circular background. Camera An icon of a digital camera. Caret An icon of a caret arrow. Clock An icon of a clock face. Close An icon of the an X shape. Close Icon An icon used to represent where to interact to collapse or dismiss a component Comment An icon of a speech bubble. Comments An icon of a speech bubble, denoting user comments. Comments An icon of a speech bubble, denoting user comments. Ellipsis An icon of 3 horizontal dots. Envelope An icon of a paper envelope. Facebook An icon of a facebook f logo. Camera An icon of a digital camera. Home An icon of a house. Instagram An icon of the Instagram logo. LinkedIn An icon of the LinkedIn logo. Magnifying Glass An icon of a magnifying glass. Search Icon A magnifying glass icon that is used to represent the function of searching. Menu An icon of 3 horizontal lines. Hamburger Menu Icon An icon used to represent a collapsed menu. Next An icon of an arrow pointing to the right. Notice An explanation mark centred inside a circle. Previous An icon of an arrow pointing to the left. Rating An icon of a star. Tag An icon of a tag. Twitter An icon of the Twitter logo. Video Camera An icon of a video camera shape. Speech Bubble Icon A icon displaying a speech bubble WhatsApp An icon of the WhatsApp logo. Information An icon of an information logo. Plus A mathematical 'plus' symbol. Duration An icon indicating Time. Success Tick An icon of a green tick. Success Tick Timeout An icon of a greyed out success tick. Loading Spinner An icon of a loading spinner. Facebook Messenger An icon of the facebook messenger app logo. Facebook An icon of a facebook f logo. Facebook Messenger An icon of the Twitter app logo. LinkedIn An icon of the LinkedIn logo. WhatsApp Messenger An icon of the Whatsapp messenger app logo. Email An icon of an mail envelope. Copy link A decentered black square over a white square.

Lindsay Bruce: I’ve got Covid for a third time – what are the chances?

covid cases
Scotland records its lowest daily case count since December 2021. Supplied by Shutterstock.

Is it too dramatic to buy a bell, don some sackcloth and start wandering about shouting “unclean”? You know – if you have Covid for a THIRD time?

Yep, you heard me right. I’ve been thrice infected. I mean, what are the chances?

No seriously, I want to know, and it seems nobody can tell me.

While a quick scan of Twitter will tell you I’m not alone in starring in Covid 3: The Virus Returns (Again), there is so little data that not even the Office of National Statistics or the UK Health Security Agency can shed some light on my propensity to keep catching coronavirus.

My first foray with the strange lurgy was in April 2020. Several colleagues caught it and we had already lost friends to the virus but, because I was employed by a frontline care organisation at the time, we had to work from the office and not in our pyjamas at home.

Predictably, I started getting symptoms. A cough, aches, high temperature and bizarre things like chilblains on my toes, swollen hands and a mouthful of blisters.

In the absence of community testing at that time, I was seen in a Covid diagnostic clinic.

On arrival in the car park, I entered a scene akin to the film Contagion. Met by two hazmat suit-wearing medics, I was walked into my own white paper boiler suit.

At the beginning of the pandemic, visiting a Covid testing centre felt like being in the film Contagion (Photo: Jane Barlow/PA Wire)

I took my own temperature and was examined, as much as possible, at arm’s reach. A temperature of 38.9C and an inability to smell the disinfectant being fogged around me, combined with other symptoms, settled it.

“You’ve got Covid.”

A certificate of infection was issued and bedroom isolation for two weeks commenced, while Mr Bruce slept on the couch.

Breathlessness at night, flu-like symptoms and an impending sense of FOMO were by far the worst parts. No one else in the house caught it.

Covid take two

Covid Two occurred in August 2021. Wee Bruce went by bus to a packed youth camp in England. No rules were broken, but let’s just say I was unsurprised that the little filth bag who returned, stinking of three-day old sweat, brought home more than unopened toothpaste.

He tested positive first. A headache, tiredness and a cough gave the game away.

I was studying emerging pink lines on lateral flow tests like I was in the Crystal Maze and the first one to spot a positive would win a prize

A few days later, as suddenly as a light switch can be flicked, my skin started aching.

With the same feverish disbelief I had when I fell pregnant, I was studying emerging pink lines on lateral flow tests like I was in the Crystal Maze and the first one to spot a positive would win a prize.

No weird skin issues that time, just a cough, fever and general tiredness.

On that occasion, my other son also joined the Covid club and has been struggling with breathlessness ever since.

Third time unlucky

Until this week, my husband had been boasting about his “natural immunity”, due to avoiding it for so long. “Probably because I was raised in the mountains of New Delhi, darlin’,” he told me.

But that was until our six-year-old returned from school, peely-wally and complaining of a headache.

Oh, dear. Hello, Covid, my old friend.

Though important for protection, vaccinations do not rule out reinfection when it comes to Covid-19 (Photo: Andy Buchanan/PA Wire)

Within days of her getting “coroma-virus” as she calls it, old Mr Immunity was next in line.

On the first day he said: “This will be the extent of it… I’ll just have a headache.”

Day two: “I’ll probably only have one day of this skin-burning fever.”

Day three: “Don’t speak to me, I’m too ill… But I bet I’ll test negative sooner than anyone else ever has.”

For the record – he’s still testing positive.

And, no shock, so am I. As of writing this, so is my eldest.

This time around I’m just knackered and have gone through a dozen loo rolls since Thursday, blowing my nose.

Reinfection rates increasing

However, I’m most certainly not alone in getting the virus more than once. According to Public Health Scotland, 10% of all recorded coronavirus infections last month were reinfections – the highest this figure has been.

And, although there is some evidence to show that those who aren’t fully vaccinated could stand a higher chance of getting Covid more than once, I don’t fit that bill.

Despite cancer treatment, I’m not classed as being immunocompromised, and I’m as vaccinated and as boosted as I can be.

Based on all of the above, I henceforth declare myself a “supercatcher”.

A person looks at National Covid Memorial Wall opposite the Palace of Westminster in central London, which bears hearts drawn by the relatives of people who have died of the virus (Photo: Victoria Jones/PA Wire)

Although I don’t know why I’m surprised. I am the woman who caught an Asian flu by falling asleep under an air vent in Singapore airport, and who got chicken pox, nits and impetigo working in a chemist for a summer.

But, however much I joke – and genuinely wonder if I’ll catch Covid 19 times before I’m free of it – please understand, it’s just a coping mechanism.

From all my dalliances with the ‘rona, I’ve been left with rheumatoid issues in my hands and my child is still breathless. Still, so many have lost their lives.

I’m choosing to laugh, sure. But only because the reality is still far from funny.


Lindsay Bruce is obituaries writer for The Press and Journal, as well as an author and speaker